They call him “The Architect”:
Born to build, create and perfect.
All men seek his designs.
They say he dreams endlessly.
But they don’t see the signs,
Alone forever, he is lonely.
So lonely that he
Takes to his creation,
To fill the void; perhaps to find the key,
To end his obsession
With being afraid
Of life and its rages.
Maybe in time the hurt will fade,
Healing takes ages
For the pain to disappear forever –
And even then not entirely –
To keep his mask on,
To keep that calm, stoic personality.
Now he faces the drawing board,
A seed of a thought germinating in his mind,
Ready to release the hoard
Of ideas by which his person is defined.
With his pen, he creates a face;
With a piece of paper, he writes a story.
Is it escape that he hopes to embrace,
By fabricating Beauty?
A line here, a curve there,
The shapes are shaping well.
Designing excellence is a tiring affair.
He creates living structures where a soul can dwell.
Cold…Suddenly, he finds it cold.
His workshop is his Limbo.
He finds that he has no one to hold;
He finds that he is hollow.
The Architect drops his pen and his gaze
From his work, unfinished.
He drops his hand from the half-formed maze,
The passion for building now slightly diminished,
Wondering why he even bothers to build at all.
His work serves to make him forget
But only for a time. Must he crawl?
And claw for meaning? His life is a debt.
He draws to exist,
To repay for his borrowed Time.
He draws or he will desist,
Into that Oblivion from which he seeks to climb.
“The Architect”, they call him,
Just a man.
He draws for all of them
Just to stay human.
He does not fully understand
The need that drives him to create.
All he knows is that one hand,
Is for drawing, while the other holds Fate.
Is his escape,
Is his passion.
A tool by which he hopes to reshape
Himself and how he feels inside
To change his state of mind
To revive what has died
And Peace finally find.